


dance with me (find your own happiness)

by orangecoconut



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy is a loser, F/M, First Kiss, Swearing, Unity Day, bad dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangecoconut/pseuds/orangecoconut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's their second Unity Day on Earth and Clarke is determined to make it a good one.</p>
<p>(or the one where Bellamy has to get drunk to ask Clarke to dance)</p>
            </blockquote>





	dance with me (find your own happiness)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic takes place a year after the kid's first Unity Day on Earth and everyone is assumed to be alive (and Finn is omitted bc I just didn't want to deal with him). enjoy!

Peace is now a rare commodity that everyone wants but always seems to be a few pennies short of buying here on Earth. Ever since the first day the one hundred (and two) landed on Earth it was always just out of their grasp, ruined by itchy trigger fingers, ptsd ridden kids, or adults that didn’t know how to make the right decision to save their fucking life.

So when their second Unity Day comes rolling around the corner Bellamy Blake isn’t at all surprised to find Clarke Griffin storming into his tent in the middle of the night like a woman on a mission. She sits on his cot like she’s welcome (which she isn’t, mind you; his cot’s only for him and any unlucky girl that follows him in), looks him straight in the eye and says,

“We should have a dance.”

He laughs, she glares, and Bellamy realizes real quick that laughing wasn’t the right response (and he doesn’t care enough to apologize or backtrack either—her idea is _ludicrous_ ).

“Who put you up to this, princess?”

She opens her mouth to say _no one_ but he stares her down and she sighs, “Monty and Jasper,” _what a surprise,_ “—but they made a good point. We need this, Bell.” And somewhere along this year she started calling him Bell and he can’t pinpoint when or whether or not he hates it. “All of us, even the adults.”

“Dances are lame, even on the Ark. Besides, they aren’t good memories for all of us.”

A knowing look crosses her face and he isn’t surprised. At this point, everyone knows his and Octavia’s story, especially now after his sister and Clarke have grown so close.

“Not a dance then. That’s a bad way to describe it. A banquet. We can afford the extra food, Monty’s whipping up some more moonshine, and Octavia said Lincoln’s people would probably agree to attend. They have similar celebrations. Usually for, like, victories and stuff but they understand the importance of a day, too.”

“Because that’s all we need.” He snorts, “Great idea Clarke. Let’s put the Grounders and the Sky People together in one small space, get them all drunk, and watch what happens. You wanna’ get our people killed?”

“We’ve been at peace, Bellamy.”

“And it’s rocky at best.”

He expects a fight, the surprise clear on his face when she gives in. “You’re right—it was a stupid idea, I guess. “ Then she shrugs and moves for the exit and with a gritted _son of a bitch_ Bellamy finds himself getting up and reaching out, hand snagging her wrist.

“You have to convince your mom.”

She brightens instantly and he realizes Clarke Griffin just played him.

(when did that start becoming a thing?)

\--

It goes better than expected. They don’t confine it to camp and while it starts off cautious, Grounders and Sky People shifting weary glances between each other, Monty’s moonshine really ends up helping. He offers the first cup to Indra as a sign of welcome and respect (something Octavia no doubt told him to do) and when she downs the entire cup in one go a lot of their people let out hoots of cheer.

Abby takes the next one and then it goes on from there.

Bellamy doesn’t drink any, the glass in his hand full of the same amount of moonshine he got two hours ago. He was all for everyone else relaxing and enjoying themselves and, even if they had guards on watch (and Lincoln’s people had scouts in the trees) he still wanted to keep his own eye out.

That is, until Octavia comes storming over, a look of determination also on her face (what is with the women in his life and their unruly stubbornness). “This is meant to be _fun,_ Bell.”

“I’m having fun.”

“Sober you is never fun.”

“ _Ouch,_ O. That one stung a little.”

She snorts and gives him a shove that doesn’t mean anything, “Even Clarke gave in and started drinking—“

“Good, she deserves it.”

“So do you. We all do. After _everything_ we deserve to make this shitty holiday **matter**.”

“Speaking of.” He gives her a side-long look, “How you holding up?”

“Fine. On the list of parties I’ve been to it’s definitely _not_ the worst.” It’s the way her lips lift in a small smile that he knows she’s teasing, making light of something that still haunted them both. “Now, drink your damn drink and dance with a pretty girl and relax, okay? For me?”

He watches her for a second before sighing, lifting the metal cup to his lips and downing its contents. “Better?”

Octavia gives a triumphant beam, “Much.”

\--

Clarke Griffin is dancing with John Murphy and, honestly, Raven wishes, more than anything, she had some sort of camera to film this. Both of them, drunk off their asses and trying to dance (when she’s pretty damn sure they don’t know how to dance _sober_ much less, drunk) and mostly just giggling instead.

It’s weird seeing Murphy smile. Even weirder that it makes her happy.

She should hate him, she knows this. She did for a long time. Still does on her bad days.

But she decided a long time ago it was too tiring hating him, especially when he started doing everything in his power to make it up to her (while also being an annoying shit about it). So, here she is, sitting at some table with her bum leg, drinking her third(?) cup of moonshine and trying not to think about Unity Day last year.

“I thought brooding was Blake’s thing.”

Wick. Of course it’s Wick. She couldn’t get one night off from him—“I’m not brooding.” She wiggles her glass in his direction and gives a lazy smile. He snorts and sits beside her, taking a swig from his own cup. “I was watching Clarke and Murphy dance.”

“What a sight, right?”

“They’re horrible.”

“Everyone in this damn camp is horrible. I haven’t seen one good dance move—“

“Are you saying _you_ could dance better?”

“ _Hell no,_ ” He laughs, doing that thing where he rubs his hand over his facial hair that Raven positively **hates.** “I can’t dance worth shit. I’m figuring neither can you since you’re stuck on the bench.”

If she was sober, she’d glare. Instead, she gestures to her leg. “I could dance. Not anymore.”

“You mean you’re gonna’ let _that_ stop you?”

Raven shakes her head, downs her drink, and sighs. “Not having this conversation. Be a mood killer somewhere else. Maybe Octavia and Lincoln, they’re getting’ a little handsy and all we need is the _prince_ to get his panties in a wad.”

“I thought Bellamy was the king.”

She waves vaguely, “Whatever. “ She’s too drunk to care about all the stupid nicknames everyone has. “They like your annoying music,” she adds and Wick gives an insulted sputter.

“My music is not _annoying._ “

“When you’re forced to listen to it every day it is.”

“What can I say? I hate silence.”

“I’ve noticed.” He looks at her and she grins a little and Wick’s lips lift just a bit and she hates it. God, does she hate Wick’s stupid smiles. They’re either cock-sure, shit-eating, or genuine and she never could decide which one was the worst one.

(right now it’s genuine, hands down).

Then, he’s standing and she thinks, _maybe,_ he’ll leave her in peace before his hand is in her face and she’s blinking up at him. “ _What._ ”

“Dance with me, Reyes.”

“I told you I don’t dance—“

“Because your leg sucks. I get it. I suck at dancing, though, so the way I see it your leg just puts us on an even playing field. Now,” he takes her drink away, sets it down, and holds out his hand again, that stupid genuine smile back on his stupid furry face, “dance with me.”

She hesitates then, with a defeated sigh, reaches out to take his hand, letting him pull her up. “ _Fine._ But keep your hands on my **hips** , Wick.”

That stupid smile turns shit-eating, “Of course.”

(damn him).

\--

Bellamy Blake is drunk. Bellamy Blake can’t even remember the last time he was drunk.

Bellamy Blake is drunk because he thought he could totally kick Jasper and Monty’s ass at some stupid drinking game only to realize they totally _hustled_ him but, now, he’s too intoxicated to give a shit, leaning heavily against Murphy like they’ve been best friends for years while his teammate tries (and fails) to redeem them.

“You guys really suck.” Jasper, ever the sore-winner, brags, handing over another drink. Murphy saves him and downs it instead.

“You’re cheating somehow.” Murphy accuses, no anger in his words as Bellamy tries to line-up his shot. He tosses, misses, and Jasper and Monty do that stupid high-five of theirs.

Monty’s turn comes and it’s over. They’re hand their drinks and somewhere along there Bellamy excuses himself to take a piss and heads for the woods.

Sober; he’d be worried about Grounders or Mountain Men grabbing him.

Drunk; all he’s worried about is getting to a tree in time.

He does and, on his way back, spots a familiar blonde off by the edge of the hill where the trees are out of the way and the stars are at their brightest. He finds himself wandering over towards her, drawn in like a moth to a flame, and clears his throat to announce his arrival.

She looks back, smiles, and he knows she’s drunk as shit too.

So, Bellamy takes a seat next to Clarke and completely forgets he left his partner somewhere else with what was left of their drinks.

“Party’s over there—“He jerks his thumb towards camp, words just a little slurred.

“Decided I wanted fresh air.”

He grins, just a little, “Every where’s fresh air, princess, we’re outside.”

Clarke’s glare is meaningless, “You know what I mean, ass.”

“Yeah.” Now that he thinks about it, being away from the loud crowd and music feels kind of nice.

“Octavia convince you to get drunk?”

“Yep. Murphy convince you to dance?”

She laughs and it sounds nice. He doesn’t hear Clarke laugh much, he realizes. It’s soft and melodic. Bellamy likes it a lot; it makes him relax, just like when Octavia would laugh. “Yeah. Didn’t take much convincing. I used to love dancing, even if I can’t.”

“And you can’t.” She shoves him at the confirmation. “What? Just saying—“

“I bet you can’t either.”

“I don’t dance by choice.”

She snorts, “That’s what people who are embarrassed that they can’t dance say.”

He doesn’t argue, just shrugs, too drunk to bother when they both know that’s _exactly_ why he chose not to dance. Instead, Bellamy just relaxes back on his elbows, looks at the sky, and tries to map out a constellation.

“This means a lot to everyone, you know.” Her words come out soft, so soft they sound like she’s admitting a secret and it causes him to tear his gaze away from the stars to look at her.

(drunk like this he doesn’t mind admitting it’s a better view).

“Ah.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“I mean it. We needed this. All of us. We needed _something_ to happen besides death and blood. Tomorrow everything might turn to shit again but, at least—at least we have tonight, right?”

“Right.” He hates that he just sounds like he’s echoing her and Clarke must feel the same way because she sighs and looks back to the stars, probably wishing he was someone else right now. Bellamy knows he should say something else; that he’s emotionally stunted and shitty at conversation that isn’t strategy or straight to the point but, he doesn’t have anything to say.

(except one thing).

“I did it for you.”

He fears looking at her but does it anyway, catching the surprise on her face before the shadows flicker and it’s gone and she’s looking at him. He fumbles (and who is Bellamy Blake to fumble, honesty? damn moonshine) to continue, “That makes me a shitty leader, maybe, but _you_ handle the—“he gestures vaguely, “— **emotional** shit. I don’t care about dances or peace parties or drinking games.”

His long shoulders lift in a feeble shrug, “I wanted you to be happy. You deserve it.”

And he guesses she’s the one that doesn’t know what to say now when all he gets is an, “Oh.”

“Speaking of. I’ll let you get back to the fun.” Hands on knees, he pushes himself to get up but Clarke reaches out to drag him back down, his inability to be any kind of graceful kicking in as he collapses back beside her (almost _on_ her as their bodies knock into each other).

She’s warm. Like a fire.

“Don’t go. This is nice. Fun even.” It’s reassurance that he didn’t mess up and Bellamy nods, taking it willingly. It was easy for Sober Bellamy to act like he was supposed to but, Drunk Bellamy found it a lot harder.

Dance with a pretty girl, Octavia said.

(he wonders--)

“I wanted this for you too.” He blinks, looks at her, and Clarke has decided to stare straight ahead while she speaks. “You don’t smile a lot, or laugh and—I get that this is hard and we all handle it differently but, I saw you grinning and laughing with Monty, Jasper, and Murphy and that’s—that’s all I wanted. “

“I’m happy.”

She gives him a questioning look. “I _am_ happy right now, I meant. I’m not unhappy, really but—I don’t think about, I guess. Don’t have time, really. With us dealing with the adults not listening, our people looking to us for everything, and dealing with Grounders and Mountain Men I just—don’t think about _my_ happiness.”

“Octavia says you haven’t thought about your happiness since the day she was born.”

His tongue goes dry and he almost flinches. “She—she said that?” Clarke nods, “I was happy. With O and Mom. I wasn’t unhappy—“

“She knows that. I think she just meant—you never did just what _you_ wanted.”

“I did that once, remember? Got over three hundred people killed.”

Clarke frowns, “That was out of fear.”

“Still happened.”

“And it’s in the _past_.” Her voice holds that ‘leader tone’ for a second before the muscles in her face relax and she sighs. Bellamy feels her fingers find his and he barely contains a jump, eyes shifting to the ground, their hands, and then back at her face. “We all deserve to be happy, Bellamy.”

“I could say all this to you. You haven’t thought of yourself once since you got here.”

“No, I did once.”

He lifts a brow, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She snorts, looking down at their hands and absently picks at one of his nails. “Yeah. And he turned out to have a girlfriend.”

“Finn was a fucking idiot.” She smiles, just a little, and he calls it a victory.

“I think Octavia was right, though. You should do something for your own happiness. Whatever that is.”

“I will if you will.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.” She looks him in the eye and damn if the moonlight doesn’t make hers blue as hell. “We both do something to make us happy, even if it’s a little selfish.”

Bellamy finds himself nodding but never dropping her gaze, “Deal.”

He knows what he wants his selfish thing to be (and hell if it isn’t fucking corny, too) but before he opens his mouth to ask he finds Clarke’s lips on his.

They’re soft, softer than he imagined (not that he imagined what kissing her would be like, ever) and she’s not shy. It was stupid, he realizes, to ever think she’d kiss him like a shy girl who didn’t know if she was allowed to or not. The moment Bellamy finds himself kissing back she surges forward, hand sinking into his matted black curls, teeth nipping at his bottom lip until his lips part and he tastes her.

She’s forceful and he’s so much more into than he thought he’d ever be.

And when she pulls back her lips are red and wet (because damn if Bellamy isn’t going to give it as good as he gets) and he knows his mouth is probably a perfect mirror to hers.

They stare at each other for a brief moment and then Clarke laughs, that soft melodic laugh he’s really loving and glances down. He can’t exactly tell in the dark but he thinks she’s flushed, if only a little bit, and it’s enough to make him proud. “Was that—“He doesn’t mean to sounds so breathless. “Was that your ‘selfish act’?”

She looks at him under her lashes, bites her swollen lip and nods (and he _knows_ she’s doing that on purpose—working him over—and he doesn’t even care). He grins like an idiot, too.

“Wanna’ know mine?”

She hesitates, then nods and he stands, holding out his hand to her, “Dance with me, princess.”

He refuses to admit, later, that dancing in the middle of camp; stepping on each other’s toes and embarrassing themselves in front of everyone, was _exactly_ the happiness he had been aiming for.

(not that he needed to).


End file.
